


The Question of Romance

by we_could_be_heroes



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-19
Updated: 2015-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:24:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_could_be_heroes/pseuds/we_could_be_heroes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Amusingly enough, after all these years, Holmes seems to labor under the misimpression that I am a hopeless romantic"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Question of Romance

I like it best when he takes me from behind. I like the raw unscrupulousness of it, the added thrill of seeing no part of him except perhaps for the pink-white fingers clenching my arm. I have led the readers of my official stories astray in keeping up the pretence that my idea of bliss consists in sharing Holmes's thoughts, or, as may be more likely given the ordinariness of my mind, at least holding up an imperfect mirror to his own.

Allow me to clear up the matter now: No greater pleasure exists in a long-term companionship than to  _un_ know one's partner for a while, to cut the ties that bind your minds together and allow your bodies to join unhindered by the shackles of conscious affection. When I lean against the wardrobe, support myself on the experiment table or perhaps get down on all fours on the hearthrug, I am allowed to forget myself and forget him and we both become strangers making use of each other only for the sake of selfish fulfillment of the basest of needs.

Amusingly enough, after all these years, Holmes seems to labor under the misimpression that I am a hopeless romantic. He can't bring himself to just fuck me and leave, no, he always makes a point of compensating me, once we're done, for the perceived lack of affection contained in the act: he brushes his lips against my ear, he strokes my hair, he kisses the corner of my mouth. As for me, I cannot bring myself to tell him how redundant that is to me and how inappropriate to the moment when we're basking in the afterglow of a fucking well done. Love, to me, at that point, has already happened in the slick firmness of his cock and the frantic thrusts of his hips - and most of all, in the desperate, utterly selfish manner in which he exercised them. It is only with the one closest to your heart that you can afford to stop holding yourself up to an imaginary standard.

"Say, Holmes," I say when we're lying in bed one night. The room is dark and oppressively quiet - we have both been trying and failing to fall asleep after a long, straining day.

The sheets rustle as he turns to face me and at that moment I, absurdly, love him for it, for the matter-of-fact attention he's ready to bestow on me. I wonder who he thinks I am, how he sees me. Would  _his_  Watson and I even get along? Of course not, he'd be a much better person than me and I would loathe the ground he walked on.

"What?" he prompts me.

In the second that follows, I think about surprising him by throwing off the covers and drawing him up against the bedpost, biting down his neck and taking charge for a change. It's ridiculous, of course, the bottle of oil being well out of reach, hidden somewhere in the depths of the third drawer - searching for it would significantly detract from the immediacy of the act.

The pause is too long and he chuckles and says: "Is there a point in hiding the thing anymore? Lydia's hardly an imbecile."

"Lucy."

"Lucy."

We fall silent again and then he gets up, slides the heavy black oak drawer open and rummages through it. My cock has already stiffened uncomfortably by the time he returns. I have resisted touching it as the moment for letting go and catering to one's needs comes only when we are joined. I pull off my night shirt and brace myself against the bedpost - I will acquire a rather shameful bruise on my forehead from it in about 90 seconds.

"Do you-"

"No talking," I instruct him.

The fucking that follows is rather unremarkable as seen in a line of many other such occasions; not particularly long and in no way novel or inventive, but I enjoy it all the more for it as it requires no thought or deliberation. I lose myself in the moment and only come back to reality once we've despoiled the handkerchiefs. We lie back down on top of the covers, side by side, but not quite touching. I anticipate the moment of him turning to me and performing his affectionate duty and once again, I lack the fortitude to stop him.

He runs his fingers down my cheek and then we draw the covers back up.

"Good night," I say and we sleep, perhaps not completely honest, but sated all the same.


End file.
